OMG

I'm not going to sugar coat it, the procedure to put the port in was far worse than I anticipated. Perhaps I'm unpleasantly shocked because I thought it'd be similar to paracentesis, which is the process to drain the ascities fluid. While that's no piece of cake because it's painful, I feel only mildly uncomfortable afterwards. So I did not expect to feel as though I'd been stabbed with an ice pick after today's procedure.

The operation itself was super quick. The radiologist froze my abdomen and inserted the tube in about 10 minutes. The prep work of draping the cloths, using ultrasound to find the best pocket of fluid, swabbing my abdomen with antiseptic and unwrapping all the necessary paraphenalia almost took longer than using the needle to freeze the layers of my belly and then jabbing me with the needle/tube.

Once the tube was in place, the draining into the vacutainers began. Luckily, I felt relief almost immediately as the pressure on my ribs and lungs started to dissipate. The doc said since I was able to drain 4.5L last time without feeling lightheaded or dizzy afterwards, she was going to drain about the same before hooking me up to my drainage bag and sending me on my way. But after about 3L, a electrifyingly painful sensation rippled through my abdomen. It felt as though my stomach and innards (yup, that's the official term) were shocked with a taser gun. The pain rolled through my body a few times and I had to breathe through it.

As a result, the radiologist stopped the drainage. She said my bowel probably got sucked up into the tube, comparing it to drapes getting stuck in the vacuum. Well, let me tell you, if those drapes could talk they'd say, "OW!"

So, I'm just getting over the pain-induced sweats when the freezing around the port starts to wear off. Oh my God! I expected some discomfort, but I didn't expect to feel as though I'd been stabbed. I couldn't move, I could barely breathe. I wondered how the hell I was going to move to put my clothes on and go home.

I asked for some pain killers and the nurse gave me the equivalent of one extra strength Tylenol. I though, "Are you serious?" When that didn't touch the pain, she got permission from my doc to give me two Tylenol 3s. Even with that running through my system, I had a hard time getting out of bed, donning my shorts and easing my butt into the wheelchair for the trek to the car. I felt every single bump on the journey and it was challenging to get myself situated in the car. Once there, my sister gave me even more painkillers and half an hour later when they kicked in, I could converse, eat and move around a bit.

Including the 3L in the OR and the fluid I've collected in my bag, I've drained about 4.5L already today. I've got the spigot turned off right now, but I know if I slid it into the on position, I'd probabaly collect even more because I'm still quite round and bloated.

Apparently, I can't drain too much each day because I could become extremely dehydrated. Personally, I'd like to get rid of it all in one shot, but apparently that's dangerous. I'm supposed to start with about 2L per day and up the amount as I feel I can tolerate it.

As for the entire set up, the port sticks out of my belly and is noticeable, the drainage tube is thick and long, and the bag gets heavy as it fills with fluid. I only have velcro straps to secure the bag to my leg, so it slides down and sticks out the bottom of my capris. It's cumbersome and going to be tricky to hide, but I'll have to figure it all out. This is my companion until I start treatment and get the cancer cells to stop making fluid.

Speaking of companion, I'd decided to name my bag Wilbur. I figure if I've got a pigtail catheter, my bag may as well have a piggy name. Wilbur was the name of the pig in Charlotte's Web. As for the pigtail, it's apparently shaped like a pig's tail on the inside. It has little holes in it, designed for catching the fluid.

So, right now I'm coming to terms with being knocked down by this whole experience. I had no idea how debilitating this would be and I can't even begin to anticipate how long it will last. I seriously expected to hop off the bed when I was told I could go home today, and skip down the halls out of the hopsital to continue on with life.

Yet here I sit on my couch with my feet up. I have pillows, water, coffee, painkillers, a book, the TV remote, my Blackberry, the phone, a blanket and my computer all within arm's reach. I can feel the painkillers starting to wear off and my stomach is growling a little. I will have to address both those issues soon. Luckily, Michael is creating a big pot of chili and the minutes until I can pop open the pill containers to shake out a few more of the magic tablets are dwindling down.

Today I experienced an unexpected bump in the road of my cancer journey. I didn't see it coming and it was sizable, so it jolted me a bit. I'll recover, but it may take a bit of time.

Tina